


Love Comes Through an Open Window

by orderlychaos



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, First Kiss, Fluff, Get Together, M/M, Missions, Pining, cameo by Nick Fury - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 20:01:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4638387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orderlychaos/pseuds/orderlychaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Five seconds later, someone tapped at the window.  Swallowing a sigh and the urge to ask the universe what he’d done wrong, Phil walked over to let Barton in.  Barton smiled sheepishly from where he was crouched on the window ledge.  Unfolding himself, Barton jumped down to the floor and Phil tried to ignore the shiver that went down his spine at Bartons sinuous grace.  Tried, and failed, but what else was new.  To hide the sudden heat in his cheeks, Phil stuck his head out the window and yep.  No ropes.</em>
</p>
<p>Phil Coulson's birthdays over the years, starting with the first time he met Clint Barton.  (Or, 5 times Clint climbed in throguh Phil's window on his birthday, and the 1 time he used the door.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Comes Through an Open Window

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ralkana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ralkana/gifts).



> First of all, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, RALKANA! I hope you enjoy the fic <3
> 
> Secondly, Ralkana was actually the inspiration for this fic before it became her birthday fic, and she also gave me the image of Clint in the beginning. So thanks :D
> 
> Finally, there is a slight warning for mentions of Clint's background of neglect as a kid. It's not mentioned in great detail, but if you wish to avoid, it's the third scene down, set in 1985.

_Novorossiysk, Russia, 2001_

Biting back a string of curses, Agent Phil Coulson shrugged off his sodden jacket and let it fall to the dirty bathroom floor.  Today sucked.  Really, _really_ sucked.  The kind of sucking his old training Sergeant at Ranger School had associated with ‘big, hairy balls’.  Phil was shivering constantly now, thanks to his unplanned swim in Tsemes Bay.  Fucking mafia-connected weapons dealers.  They’d ruined his plans and then almost shot him, which had _not_ been how Phil had wanted to spend his afternoon.  Thankfully, it wasn’t winter, so Phil didn’t have to worry about hypothermia on top of the slime covering his skin.  The slime was bad enough.  And as secure as his safehouse might be, it wasn’t the most comfortable place Phil had ever stayed.  The tiny, rundown apartment lacked heat, steady water pressure and most furnishings.  It was pretty much what Phil had expected of a bolt-hole, but the shower was warm and wet, so Phil would take it.

There was a possibility, however slim, that Phil wouldn’t have minded as much if it had been any other day.  But today was his damned _birthday_.  It didn’t matter that Phil never bothered celebrating it beyond a drink with Nick.  It was his _birthday_ and birthdays were not supposed to include ending up half-frozen in Russia with slime in his boxers.  There should be a rule somewhere about that.  If there wasn’t, Phil would _write_ one.

Peeling off the rest of his soaked clothes, Phil turned the shower on as hot as it would go and rinsed off.  It had taken him three long months to track the Black Widow and her partner Hawkeye as far as Russia, and a further month to actually find them.  Hoping it would be easier for one man alone to get a meeting with the mercenaries, Phil had left the other SHIELD agents back in Krasnodar.  Unfortunately, that hadn’t helped.  The closest Phil had gotten to the Black Widow had been the docks.  The same docks that had proceeded to catch fire, thanks to several gallons of gasoline, two flaming arrows and what had sounded like a generous helping of C4.  Blowing out a sigh, Phil debated what the hell he was going to tell the Director when he checked in.  It was bad enough that Phil had been involved in the destruction of half of Novorossiysk’s main port.  Nick would find it infinitely worse that he’d let Hawkeye and the Black Widow slip through his fingers too.

Fuck, Phil would kill for a decent cup of coffee.

After drying himself with a threadbare towel, Phil ducked out into the bedroom and went searching for a clean pair of pants.  He’d just pulled them up when he felt an icy draft on the back of his neck.  Phil fought to keep the way his muscles had immediately tensed from showing on his face as he shivered.  He debated going for his gun, but he wasn’t sure it would do him any good.  Keeping his hands away from his body, Phil slowly turned around.

“Hello, Agent.”  The woman standing in the middle of what Phil had believed was a secure safe house was smaller than Phil had expected.  Her clothes were completely black, highlighting her bright red hair, and she was very obviously armed.  A faint smudge of soot was dark against her pale cheek, and the smile on her face was terrifying enough to have Phil’s heart pounding in his chest.  She was as beautiful as the rumours said, but Phil didn’t think for a single second that the Black Widow couldn’t kill him where he stood.  She was a pure, unrelenting hunter, right down to her bones.

“I wouldn’t even try to run if I were you,” a second voice advised.  It was only then that Phil realized there was a man sitting on the half-broken bed by the wall.  “Trust me on this.”  The man’s grin was only slightly less chilling as the Black Widow’s.  It was somehow made even more frightening by the way he was lazily peeling an apple with a throwing knife.

Phil didn’t need the quiver visible over the top of the man’s shoulder to guess this was the infamous Hawkeye.  Hawkeye’s legs were crossed at the ankles, his posture deceptively relaxed.  Even so, there was a sense of an efficient and contained predator about him.  His shaggy blond hair looked like it had last been trimmed with a combat knife, and he was roughly handsome in a ruthless kind of way.  Phil shivered again.  Every time Hawkeye’s sharp eyes glanced over, Phil swore he was clinically cataloguing Phil's every weakness.

Phil figured there was only one thing for it.  Taking a deep breath, he let it out slowly and arched an eyebrow.  “Is there something I can do for you?”

The Black Widow gave one, slow blink, as if she hadn’t expected that response.  Phil wasn’t surprised.  Most reactions to the sudden appearance of the Black Widow probably involved a lot more screaming.  “You can stop following us,” the Black Widow countered, her voice as cold as her smile.

“I could,” Phil conceded, wondering what kind of game she was playing.

The Black Widow cocked her head to the side.  “But you’re not going to, are you?”

“I have a proposition for you,” Phil said in answer.

From the bed, Hawkeye gave a low whistle.  “Fuck, you’ve got balls, I’ll give you that.”  He considered Phil for a long moment, his eyes lingering on Phil’s still naked chest.  “And what makes you think we’d even want to listen to your proposition?”

Phil let out another slow breath.  Even though he hadn’t survived this long without taking a few risks, Phil was still wary of laying his cards out on the table.  Not that he had any other choice.  Hawkeye and the Black Widow wouldn’t hesitate to walk if he didn’t -- or worse.  “Because I can have you out of the country in three hours,” Phil replied calmly.  He tried not to betray the way his heart was still pounding.  “And because I have enough medical supplies to treat the wound in your side that you’re trying to hide with your jacket.”  He slid his eyes towards the Black Widow.  “I also have broad spectrum antibiotics and painkillers to treat your fever and whatever other injuries you have.”

This time, the smile that curved across the Black Widow’s face was amused.  “There’s more to you than meets the eye, isn’t there?”

“Yes,” Phil said simply.  “Just like you.”

The Black Widow’s smile grew.  “My name is Natasha Romanoff,” she said.

“Phil Coulson,” Phil replied.  He somehow sensed he’d just won an impressive victory, but wasn’t quite sure how he’d managed it.  He glanced towards the bed.

“Clint Barton,” Hawkeye grunted in introduction, unable to keep the wince off his face when he moved.

Inwardly, Phil sighed.  “If you want me to patch you up, I’d lose the jacket,” he said.  He moved to grab his first aid kit from the bathroom, and swiping a t-shirt on the way.

When he returned, Romanoff was helping Barton shrug out of his jacket.  The loose sweater Barton wore underneath was torn and fraying, and it hung off Barton’s frame, making him look painfully lean.  Phil knew it was mostly illusion.  Hawkeye might be in need of a few good meals, but his loose clothes hid a body that was no doubt packed with hard muscle.  Also probably far more weapons than Phil could see.  Biting his lip, Barton pulled the sweater off too, revealing a faded black t-shirt.  The fabric was torn on Barton’s left side, shiny with the blood still slowly weeping from his wound.  

Pulling on a pair of disposable gloves, Phil nodded towards the wound.  “May I?” he asked.

At Barton’s wary nod, Phil approached slowly and placed the medkit on the bed next to him.  Barton smelled faintly like cigarettes and snow.  Concentrating on the wound, Phil tried to ignore the ominous presence of the Black Widow hovering protectively.  Phil carefully cut the t-shirt away from the wound.  Then, as gently as he could, he cleaned and checked the wound.  It was long and thin, deep enough that it would need stitches, but hopefully not serious.  “Do you regularly get into knife fights with the Russian mafia?” Phil asked Barton, mainly as a distraction.

“Who said they were mafia thugs?” Barton growled.

Phil glanced up to find Barton glaring at him.  “No one,” he replied.  “But I’m familiar with their knife technique.”

Barton blinked.  “Who the hell are you?”

Not really sure how to answer that question, Phil shrugged.  He doubted either Romanoff or Barton were ready for his recruitment pitch for SHIELD.  Instead, he focused on sewing up the gash.  When he was done, he carefully taped a strip of gauze over the wound.  “That will probably do until we can get an actual doctor to look it over,” he said as he stood up and peeled off the gloves.

Barton froze in the middle of climbing off the bed.  “Who says I’m going anywhere with you?” he snapped.  “Particularly to a hospital?”

“He’s not taking us to a hospital,” Romanoff said quietly. Phil was surprised to find she’d retreated to the window to keep watch.  He’d expected her to remain close to him in case he tried anything with Barton.  She turned to look Phil dead in the eye.  “He’s taking us to SHIELD.”

Phil swallowed, because the Black Widow’s intel was clearly better than they’d ever imagined.  “There is a position at SHIELD for both of you, if you want it,” he agreed.

Romanoff’s eyes flicked to Barton, and the pair had a silent conversation that Phil didn’t even pretend to understand.  “Okay,” Barton said, after a long, silent moment.

“If we’re going to go, we need to go _now_ ,” Romanoff said, her eyes fixed on something outside the window.  “Markov just arrived.”

Grabbing his emergency bag from behind the half-rotten panel in the wall, Phil shoved his feet into boots.  Twenty seconds later, he threw on a jacket and slung the bag over his shoulder.  It had been a good call to wear more casual clothes on this mission, rather than his suit.  If only for practicality.  “After you,” he said mildly, unable to stop the twitch of a smile at Barton and Romanoff’s surprised blinks.

“Shit, you’re just full of surprises, aren’t you, Coulson?” Barton said approvingly. He’d shrugged back into his own battered jacket.

“You have no idea,” Phil shot back dryly.  He flicked his eyes towards Natasha.  “There’s a drainpipe outside the bathroom window that leads straight to the roof.”

As he passed the deck behind Barton, Phil grabbed the satellite radio from behind the rickety desk in the corner.  It was a good thing he did, because three seconds later, it crackled into life.  “Cheese, are you there, you asshole?” Nick Fury’s voice echoed angrily.

Phil couldn’t stop his grin.  “I’m here, Marcus,” he replied.

“You missed check-in.  Didn’t I tell you not to do that?” Nick snapped, his irritation clear over the crackling of the radio.

Now that he was by the window, Phil could see the thugs climbing out of the shiny, black SUV on the snowy street below.  “I’m kind of in the middle of something right now,” he said.  “I’ll call you back in a few minutes.”

There was a beat of silence, before Nick’s voice came back over the radio.  “I can have a ‘jet at your position in ten.”

Phil glanced over at Romanoff, who shook her head slightly.  “We don’t have ten minutes,” he replied, his mind already searching for alternate plans.  “There’s a large square three kilometers southeast from the safehouse.  Have the ‘jet meet us there in fifteen.”

“Copy that,” Nick said.  “And your ass better be on that ‘jet, Cheese, or I’m going to be pissed.”

Phil shrugged at Barton’s curious look.  “Copy that, Marcus,” he said.  “Cheese out.”

“There’s a story behind that, isn’t there?” Barton said.

“Yep,” Phil agreed, just as he heard someone kick open a door downstairs, followed by several loud shouts in Russian.  He nodded towards the window.  “Shall we?”

Barton grinned.  “After you, Cheese.”

~*~

_New York, USA, 2002_

Unbeknownst to Phil, that first meeting had set a precedent.  Why exactly, Phil had no idea.  His birthday wasn’t exactly a state secret, but somehow Barton must have connected it with their adventure in Russia.  Of course, Phil’s tiny New York apartment should have been harder to find.  Stupidly, Phil had considered his windows safe from an acrobatic archer climbing through them.  He hadn’t had much to do with Barton and Romanoff since their recruitment.  Instead, Nick Fury had taken them under his wing, because Nick liked collecting dangerous people.  Phil had gone back to supervising teams of agents.  If some of them couldn’t tie their own shoelaces without written instructions, only Nick was witness to his rants.  And if occasionally Phil thought about sharp multi-coloured eyes and a dangerous smile, no one had guessed yet, so he was fine.  Phil was under no illusions that he’d barely be a blip in Barton’s memory anyway.  He wasn’t special.

Sighing, Phil squinted as his door lock as he dragged himself into his apartment.  It was just before dawn, and Phil’s last mission had been particularly long and frustrating.  He was operating on thirty hours without sleep, which normally wasn’t a problem.  Unfortunately, those thirty hours had been filled with a lot more bullets and explosives than usual.  Hell, Phil had only just worked out it was his birthday.  Yawning, Phil made a note to check in with Jasper and Maria.  They might want a drink after work, but that wasn’t important.  Grabbing a shower and eight uninterrupted hours of sleep seemed like more of a priority.

Besides, Phil didn’t see much point of celebrating his turning another year older.  Aside from his friends who were just as busy as he was, Phil didn’t have anyone special to spend the day with.  He didn’t have anyone to come home to, either, and that seemed particularly lonely today.  Phil sighed.  He’d be fine.  Nick would call, and he’d be off on another mission soon enough.

Placing his keys in the bowl by the door, Phil headed towards his bedroom.  He dumped his go-bag in the corner.  He’d need to replace the dirty clothes and replenish the small medkit, but he could do that in the morning.  He’d showered after the debrief back at SHIELD, which had removed the worst of the mission grime.  Even so, Phil wasted no time stripping off his suit and headed for the bathroom.  Nothing beat a long, hot shower in his own bathroom.  Phil was almost tempted to leave his clothes were they landed, but his dry cleaner probably wouldn’t forgive him.  Carefully, he left his gun in the locked drawer beside his bed, but took his matte-black combat knife into the bathroom.  The habit of always being near a weapon was too ingrained for Phil to be comfortable without it.

Sighing, Phil stepped under the hot water and had to bite back a groan.  Fuck, that was good.  He let the hot water soothe his muscles, tilting his head to let the spray get to a particularly tender knot in his neck.  Scrubbing the last traces of the mission from his skin, Phil let the heat of the shower sink into his bones.  The pain from his collection of bruises and scratches slowly faded to a dull ache.  It had been an inopportune fall out a window, but it could have been worse.  Although the bruise down his left side would probably be a spectacular shade of purple in a few hours.

Finally, when Phil was sure he was about to fall asleep standing up, he reluctantly stepped out of the shower.  Slinging a towel around his waist, he bit back a yawn.  The room had filled with steam from his hot shower, but when Phil turned to the mirror, he froze.

Three words had been scrawled in the condensation, inches from where he’d left his knife.   _Happy Birthday, Coulson_.

The message hadn’t had a chance to fog over yet, so whoever had written it was close.  A chill ran down Phil’s spine, his heart thumping in his chest.  Someone had broken into his apartment and then into his _bathroom_ without Phil sensing a thing.  There were only a few people Phil could think of who would be able to do that so easily, and Phil really hoped this wasn’t their idea of a threat.

Using one hand to hold his towel around his hips, Phil threw open the door and grabbed one of his hidden guns.  It didn’t take long for Phil to search his tiny apartment.  No one was there.  Only, when Phil walked into the kitchen, he saw the second gift his mysterious visitor had left.

The purple-iced cupcake sat innocently on the counter, looking deceptively delicious.  The lone candle sitting on top was still burning merrily, which must have taken some skill.  Next to it sat a jaunty card, also in purple.  Beyond that, Phil’s kitchen window was ajar, proving how the gift-giving archer had gained entry.

“Dammit, Barton,” Phil muttered, his heartbeat finally slowing as he realized who had snuck in through the still open window.  The cool night air brushing against his still warm skin made him shiver.

For a moment Phil considered calling Nick, but then again, Phil was also pretty sure he didn’t want his old friend laughing at him.  Nick would no doubt find Barton’s antics _amusing_.  Although, if Phil caught even a glimmer of gossip that Nick had put Barton up to this, Phil’s revenge would be swift and messy.  Letting out a sigh, Phil gave up.  The cupcake _did_ look delicious and really, a cupcake and a card was much better than the cold slime of last year.  Placing his gun carefully on the counter, Phil leaned over to blow out his candle.  He was too old to make wishes, but he did think fleetingly that maybe it would be nice if Barton stuck around next time.

Then he walked over and firmly shut the window before anyone outside got any ideas about stealing his birthday cupcake.  If they did, Phil was going to shoot first and not ask any questions at all.

~*~

_Appleton, USA, 1985_

Phil shivered, not even the wool of his suit doing much against the chill of a Midwestern autumn.  Luckily, he’d liberated a few rough blankets before he’d taken refuge in the old, dilapidated stable.  Whatever horses had once lived there were gone, and the wind cut through the cracks in the wall like an icy knife.  Phil had debated for a long time about lighting a fire.  He hadn’t wanted to risk drawing attention to himself.  There was an achingly familiar circus -- for all that Phil had never set eyes on it before -- just over the hill.  In the end, though, Phil’s practically had won out, and he’d lit a small and carefully contained fire.

Phil still wasn’t entirely sure how he’d ended up just outside of Appleton, Wisconsin.  One minute, he’d been getting the all clear from the strike team and stepping out of the mobile command center.  The next, Barton had been yelling in his ear and he’d been engulfed in bright yellow light.  When Phil had opened his eyes again, he’d found himself sprawled face down behind a dumpster.  Since it had been morning, Phil’s first theory had been transportation by some sort of energy or spell.  Except the hairstyles and fashion choices had quickly led Phil to thinking something far worse.  The last time Phil had seen that many shoulder-pads and big hairs in close proximity, he and Nick had still been in the Rangers.

It was possible that somewhere, he and Nick actually still were.  Probably getting flat out drunk in a bar somewhere, because _of course_ this all happened on Phil’s birthday.  The date on the newspaper had confirmed Phil’s fears.  Somehow, he’d time traveled and was now stuck in 1985.

That hadn’t really been his best year the first time around.

Phil had gotten out of town as fast as he dared -- after he’d picked a few pockets for some spare cash.  He hadn’t really had much else on him aside from his mission gear.  Phil was already drafting a change to SHIELD policy about what constituted necessary equipment.  Just in case of subsequent time-travel.  Only, Phil’s luck on his birthday was truly shitty.  Just outside of town, he’d come face to canvas tent with none other than Carson’s Circus of Travelling Wonders.  Phil had read Clint’s file enough to know the significance of the name.  Even if he hadn’t, the posters proclaiming the archery act of Trickshot and his side-kick Hawkeye would have been enough.  Barton would barely be in his teens, but he was already on the path to becoming the World’s Greatest Marksman.

Shivering, Phil curled himself tighter into his blankets and shuffled a little closer to his small fire.  Deliberately, he put all thoughts of potentially stumbling across a very young Barton out of his mind.  Phil’s only hope now was that Nick would find one of the notes he’d left about when and where he’d ended up.  Hopefully, the Nick of the future would also know what to do about it.  Phil was just slipping into an uncomfortable doze when a soft scuffing sound jolted him awake again.  Blinking, Phil peered into the darkness beyond his little corner of the stable’s second floor as his heartbeat picked up.  He still wore his gun under his suit jacket, but he didn’t want to use it if he didn’t have to.

He was grateful he hadn’t drawn it a moment later when he found two wide, fearful blue eyes staring at him.  Scrawny and dirty, the boy couldn’t have been more than thirteen, but Phil would recognize Clint Barton anywhere.  The fact that he appeared to have just climbed in through the stable’s open window didn’t surprise Phil in the slightest.

For a long, drawn out moment, they just stared at each other in silence.  Then, Barton clenched his jaw and stuck out his chin defiantly.  The gesture was so like the adult he’d become that for a moment, Phil’s throat tightened.  Tentatively, Phil smiled at Barton.  It was probably a very bad idea, but Phil couldn’t stop himself.  He wanted to smile at Barton a lot, adult or not.  Over the last year, Nick had started sending Phil out to oversee more Strike Team Delta missions.  It hadn’t taken him, Natasha and Clint long to solidify into a great team.  Only, somewhere between the snark over the comms and coffee in Phil’s office, Phil had gained their friendship too.

If sometimes Phil wished for more than that, well that was a secret he was going to keep, thank you.  He’d had enough rejection in his life.

In front of him, the younger Barton swallowed heavily.  The boy was clearly torn between staying in the presence of a stranger, and going back outside to whatever he’d fled from.  Now that Phil was looking closer, he could see the still damp tracks of tears and his heart clenched.  Barton’s t-shirt looked thin under his ragged hoodie, and his jeans weren’t much better.  If nothing else, Phil could afford to share his fire a little.  “You don’t have to leave, you know,” he said quietly, hoping he wouldn’t send Barton disappearing.

Sniffing, Barton rubbed his cheeks and glared at Phil, still sparking with defiance.  “Oh, yeah?” he growled, puffing out his chest.  “And what’s it gonna cost me?”

Phil had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep his face smooth.  White hot rage and a deep, aching sadness settled under his ribs at the way Barton clearly equated all kindness with a price.  Phil longed to show Barton that he was worth so much more than he believed, but it wasn’t Phil’s place.  Still, there was something he could do.  He swallowed.  “Well, I was hoping that you won’t tell anyone I’m here,” he said.

Barton narrowed his eyes.  “What?  You run away or somethin’?”

Phil smiled again and nodded.  “Or something,” he agreed.

Cautiously, Barton stepped a little closer, eyeing Phil suspiciously.  Barton’s gaze kept straying to the blankets around Phil, his own arms curled tightly around his stomach.  “So why’d a suit like you have to run away, anyway?  Your life not perfect enough?”

Phil shook his head.  He couldn’t exactly tell Barton the truth about his time travel, but he didn’t want to lie either.  Instead, Phil found himself confessing a secret that wasn’t exactly the reason he was here, but was still a version of the truth.  “It’s my birthday,” Phil told him, watching Clint blink in surprise.  “And bad things tend to happen on my birthday.”

“Always?” Barton asked, them he blinked and scowled, clearly regretting asking such an unguarded question.

Phil thought back to his last birthday and the cupcake Barton had given him.  “Well, maybe not the whole day,” he admitted.

“But the good things hurt too,” Barton said quietly.

Phil blinked out of his thoughts to find Barton watching him with an adult kind of empathy that was far beyond his years.  That, more than Barton’s file or the few scars Phil had glimpsed, proved just how hard Barton’s life had been.  Phil nodded.  “That doesn’t make the good things any less good,” he said.  He dug underneath the blankets for a moment, before pulling out a twinkie.  “Want to help me celebrate?”

Barton sniffed again, regarding the food warily.  “That all you got?” he said.  “‘Cause that seems like a pretty shitty way to celebrate your birthday.”

Phil shrugged, pretending he wasn’t starting to feel hungry for a meal that didn’t come with a whole lot of artificial crap in it.  “It was the closest to a cake I could afford,” he said.

Barton eyed him, a strange expression on his face.  Then he crept a little closer and sat down, cross-legged, just out of arm’s reach.  “You ain’t like any suit I ever met before,” he said.

Phil smiled.  “My name’s Phil,” he said, because the damage was already done.  If Barton was going to remember this encounter, he’d do it whether Phil gave his name or not.

“I’m Hawkeye,” Barton said, puffing out his chest a little.

Phil nodded, hiding a smile.  When Barton shivered again, Phil unwound one of the blankets he’d wrapped around himself and held it out to the boy.  He bit back at smile at Barton’s renewed wary suspicion at the offering.  “We’re supposed to be celebrating, remember?” Phil said.  “Can’t do that cold.”

Barton grabbed the blanket and wrapped himself up on it, snuggling into the folds with a tiny smile.  It was beyond adorable, which were probably not the kinds of thoughts Phil should be having.  Not if he wanted to keep his professionalism in the future.  While Barton was distracted, Phil tossed him a twinkie.  Then, after a moment’s hesitation, the remainder of the stale bread he’d stolen and his last apple.  Barton looked like he needed the meagre food more than Phil did, and it wouldn’t be the first time Phil had gone hungry for a day or two.

Glancing up, Barton glared at him.  “Hey, I’m not taking all your food, dude,” he said.

Phil shrugged.  “It’s not all of it,” he said, and it wasn’t.  He still had two twinkies left.  “Besides, it’s my birthday.  I get to decide who eats my food.”

The look Barton shot him was deeply skeptical.  “I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works,” he said.

Phil shrugged again.  “I don’t care,” he replied.

To Phil’s surprise, the edge of Barton’s mouth lifted up in a smile before he squashed it down.  “Thanks,” he muttered, making the food vanish inside the blanket.  He kept the twinkie on his lap though.  “How old you turning, anyway? A hundred?”

Despite everything, Phil grinned.  It was nice to see Barton was always a smartass.  “Not quite.  That’s next year,” he quipped back.

Barton sent him another ghost of a smile.   “No, I mean, really,” he said, his eyes fixed on the corner of his blanket as his fingers toyed with a loose thread.

Mentally, Phil shrugged.  He had no reason not to tell Barton.  “Thirty nine,” he admitted.

Barton wrinkled his nose.  “Ugh, that _is_ old,” he said, but his eyes were dancing with more life than Phil had seen in the young boy so far.

Phil rolled his eyes.  “Eat your twinkie,” he grumbled.

Barton ducked his head to hide his smile as he tore at the wrapper.  Lifting the bright yellow cake, Barton gestured impatiently for Phil to do the same, like some sort of deranged toast.  “To turning older than dirt,” Barton said, before he crammed the entire twinkie into his mouth at once.

Phil shook his head, because he’d seen the older Barton do that too many times to count.  If anyone had asked him what would happen if he ever met a younger Barton, he wouldn’t have imagined the easy conversation.  Barton was still wary, but his eyes lit up when he spoke about archery, or the new Peggy Carter comic he was reading.  Not looking Phil in the eye, he’d told Phil that he’d stolen it from his brother after Barney had complained about it.  It was endearing to watch Barton confess quietly that he likes this version of Peggy better, with all her ass kicking and gadgets.  Phil agreed completely, particularly after the stupidity of the sixties and seventies era comics.

When exactly they fell asleep, Phil didn’t remember.  He startled awake sometime just before dawn to see Barton neatly folding his blanket.  The sky was only just beginning to lighten, and their small fire had burnt down almost to embers.  “I have to go,” Barton told him quietly, his fingers twisting around each other even as he shivered in the chill morning air.

Phil nodded.  “Of course.”

Barton glanced away and glanced back.  “Will you still be here later?” he asked, his voice barely loud enough for Phil to hear.

Swallowing the sudden lump in his throat, Phil tried to ignore the way his stomach twisted.  “I don’t know,” he answered truthfully.

“Yeah, okay,” Barton muttered, still not looking at Phil and scuffing his ratty sneaker through the ancient straw.

“I’m sorry,” Phil apologized, knowing it was completely inadequate.

“No, I get it, I mean you’ve got all that old fart shit to do,” Barton said, his lips twisting even as he refused to look at Phil.

Swallowing, Phil was caught by the persistent urge not to let Barton walk away yet.  As much as he wanted to, he might not be able to save Barton from what was coming, but there had to be something he _could_ do.  Impulsively, Phil pressed his fingers against the hilt of his favourite knife as he threw off his blanket and stood.  Sliding the blade out of its hidden pocket, Phil held it out, handle first, towards Clint.  Blinking, Clint eyed the knife and then Phil, wariness back in his gaze.

“I want you to have it,” Phil told him.  “This knife has helped me out of a few dire situations in the past.  Maybe its luck can help you too.”

“No!  What… I’m not…” Barton breathed before swallowing heavily.  His eyes were wide with a mixture of fear and hope, and the combination broke Phil’s heart.

“Please,” Phil said.

Hesitantly, Barton stretched out a hand to the knife, his fingers hovering over the hilt.  “Why?” he asked, looking straight at Phil.

A million replies went through Phil’s mind, but half of them he couldn’t say, and the other half Barton wouldn’t accept.  “Because I may not be here tonight, or tomorrow, Hawkeye,” he said, letting his certainty and faith colour his words.  “But we _will_ meet again.”   _And maybe my knife will help you get there._

Barton studied him for a long, silent moment, before nodding once and taking the knife.  “You’re not really a suit, are you?” he said.

Phil smiled slightly.  “Oh, I am,” he said.  “I’m just not _only_ a suit.”

His lips tipping up in an answering smile, Barton shook his head.  The knife quickly disappeared into his pocket.  “You’re weird,” he muttered.  “But…  thanks.”

Phil nodded.  “How’s your memory?” he asked.  He’d always suspected Barton had an almost photographic memory, but he’d never had it confirmed.

“Pretty good,” Barton replied, his eyes narrowing.  “How come?”

Phil rattled off a number.  “You got that?” he said.

Clint nodded, still wary.

“That phone number belongs to a man called Nick Fury,” Phil said.  Or at least it would by the time Barton needed it.  “If you ever get into serious trouble you think you can’t get out of, call it.  Tell Nick that you’re cashing in one of Phil’s favours.  He’ll help you.”

Barton nodded, but almost absently.  “Not you?” he said softly.

Phil smiled.  “Nick is a better bet for helping you out of tricky situations,” he said.  “Trust me.  There’s no one better.”

“Okay.”  Barton seemed strangely quiet.  Phil hoped it wasn’t because of his offer.  Suddenly, Barton rushed forward and grabbed Phil around the waist in a surprisingly tight hug.  “Thank you,” he whispered into Phil’s chest.

His throat feeling tight, Phil carefully reached up to hug Barton back.  “You’re very welcome, Hawkeye,” he replied.

When Barton pulled back, his cheeks were pink, and he kept glancing at the window.  “I really have to go,” he muttered miserably.  Then he lifted his chin, a spark of his earlier defiance in his eyes.  “But we’ll meet again, right?”

“I promise,” Phil told him.

Barton nodded once, and then ducked away, his shoulders hunched.  Phil stood there for a long moment, guilt and sadness twisting in his chest.  Could he have done more to help Barton?  Would it have affected too many things?

“You did the right thing, you know.”

The soft voice behind him startled Phil so badly he jumped.  His heart slamming against his ribs, Phil spun around, staring wide-eyed.  Barton smirked back at him.  Adult, SHIELD agent Barton, with his scars and burdens.  Barton was crouched on the window sill, amusement lurking in his gaze.  The same window his younger counterpart had climbed in earlier, because _of course_.

“What?” Phil said, blinking.

“I said, you did the right thing,” Barton said, jumping down onto the floor with cat-like grace.  His eyes were shadowed as he stared after his younger self, before they flicked back to Phil.  “Letting me walk out of here.  You couldn’t have solved all my problems, Phil.  And I wouldn’t have let you try, either.”

Phil swallowed again.  That was the first time Barton had ever used his first name, and he shivered a little at the sound of it in Barton’s rough voice.

“And thanks,” Barton added as Phil continued to stand there confused and mute.  “For the knife.”  Barton’s nimble fingers slid something out from underneath his tac vest, and there it was.  Phil’s knife.  A bit more battered and scratched than when Phil had given it away, but real and whole.  Like Barton.

Barton grinned, but there was something hard and vicious around the edges.  “It saved my life more than once,” he said.  “Like I’m guessing you hoped it would.”

Phil nodded.

Barton smiled again.  “Thanks.”

Warmth spread through Phil’s chest, easing some of the churning guilt, and he felt his shoulders relax a little.  He’d hoped his actions would do some good, and they had.  Swallowed, he finally found his voice.  “You’re welcome.”

Then he blinked, another thought hitting him.  Phil had always wondered why Barton had bothered to try and find out his birthday.  It wouldn’t have taken much effort, but it had seemed a little out of the ordinary for Barton to personally deliver a cupcake.  Even assuming Barton was grateful for his recruitment.

But not if Barton already knew Phil’s birthday.

“I think I should be thanking you, too,” Phil said.  “For the cupcake, at least.”

Barton smirked at him.  “I’m pretty sure the extra range time was thanks enough, Boss.”

“No, I mean…”  Phil waved a hand, not entirely sure how to finish that sentence.

Barton’s expression softened.  “You’re welcome, Phil,” he said.  He shrugged his shoulders, and all at once Phil could see the boy in the man he’d become.  “Had to make sure you had something good.”

Phil nodded, swallowing down the thick feeling in his chest.  “You definitely managed that, Clint.”

Barton ducked his head bashfully, but he couldn’t entirely hide his grin.  Digging into another pocket, Clint pulled out a twinkie.  It was slightly squashed, but the yellow cake made Phil smile.  “Happy Birthday, Phil,” Clint said.  “Wanna get out of here?”

“ _Please_ ,” Phil said on a groan.  “I’ve been dreaming of a steak dinner for _days_.”

Clint laughed.  “Well, let’s get you home, and then Nat and I will buy you one.”

~*~

_Monte Carlo, Monaco, 2004_

Glancing around the corner, Phil scanned the corridor for any of Adrian Metzler’s thugs.  Jasper and his team of junior agents had already dealt with the cameras.  All Phil had to do was to search Metzler’s room before anyone downstairs missed him.  Phil doubted they would.  The party was the kind with free flowing champagne and opulent food.  Besides, Agent Romanoff was keeping everyone distracted under her guise as Phil’s young trophy wife.  She was no doubt subtly interrogating both their target and anyone else in the vicinity.

“I am going to stab the next fat, arrogant man who tries to put a hand on my leg, and _no one_ can stop me,” Romanoff growled over the comms.

Phil smiled slightly.  “I wouldn’t dream of trying, Agent Romanoff,” he replied, his voice barely more than a whisper.

It wasn’t Phil’s first mission with Strike Team Delta, but it was his first on the ground rather than as a voice in their ears.  Unfortunately, Agent Elliott had gotten food poisoning twelve hours before wheels up.  As lead agent, Phil was the only one who’d known Elliott’s role well enough to take over, so here he was.  Sneaking around a fancy hotel in Monte Carlo in a tuxedo.  It was all very James Bond.  Jasper had done an impressive job of changing all the cover documentation, and Peter Mitchell had been born.  Now, all Phil had to do was stop a known black market trader from selling a newly engineered and very deadly toxin.

Not exactly the way Phil had envisioned spending his fortieth birthday.  At least Nick had promised him a bottle of single malt for this.

“How about instead of encouraging the Black Widow to commit homicide, you focus on finding Metzler’s room, Coulson?” Jasper snarked in his ear.

Phil arched an eyebrow, even though Jasper couldn’t see him.  “Believe it or not, Agent Sitwell, I can multitask,” he shot back dryly.

Jasper snorted.  “That’s a matter of opinion,” he said.  “I’ve seen you around donuts, remember.”

Rolling his eyes, Phil slipped around the corner, keeping his eyes open for movement.  Finding the room was easy enough, and Phil knocked, not really expecting an answer.  When he didn’t get one, he slid the stolen master key card out of his pocket and opened the door.  The suite beyond was dark, but there was enough light coming in from the harbour outside to verify that Phil was alone.  Like all the suites at the _Hôtel de Paris_ , the rooms were elegantly decorated with thick carpets and large windows.  Beyond the small balcony outside was a stunning view of the port, the yachts lit up with lights and the water dark.  Phil scanned his eyes over the sitting room and its ornate sofas and tables, searching for Metzler’s laptop.  If he could get his hands on a copy of Metzler’s files, SHIELD would have a better idea of who he was supplying and how far the web went.

“Hey, Cheese, where are you?” Barton’s rough voice echoed over the comm.

Phil bit back a sigh, silently cursing Nick’s amusement at Barton’s use of Phil’s old Ranger nickname.  It had stuck now, and Barton rarely called him anything else when they weren’t in a formal briefing.  At least there, Barton remained professional.  “Inside Metzler’s room,” he said quietly, but Barton cut him off before he could say anything else.

“No, I mean where _exactly_ are you?” Barron asked.

Phil blinked and frowned.  “North west corridor, fourth floor, two rooms down from the elevators at the north end,” he said.

“Okay,” Clint said.  He gave a muffled grunt, and a clink echoed over the comm, followed by the sound of boots hitting something hard.

Phil paused, and actually opened and shut his mouth a few times.  “Hawkeye, are you climbing up the _side of the building_?” he hissed.

“Hang on,” Barton muttered, before he grunted again.

Phil very much did not think about the upper body strength required to free-climb the side of the hotel.

Jasper gave a low whistle.  “Okay, Hawk, you are officially crazy,” he said.

Phil resisted the urge to close his eyes, but only barely.  “He’s climbing up the side of the building, isn’t he?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Romanoff added.

Five seconds later, someone tapped at the window.  Swallowing a sigh and the urge to ask the universe what he’d done wrong, Phil walked over to let Barton in.  Barton smiled sheepishly from where he was crouched on the window ledge.  Unfolding himself, Barton jumped down to the floor and Phil tried to ignore the shiver that went down his spine at Bartons sinuous grace.  Tried, and failed, but what else was new.  To hide the sudden heat in his cheeks, Phil stuck his head out the window and yep.  No ropes.

Ducking back inside, he glared at his asset.  “Do you want to explain what was so important you had to climb the side of the building without rope?” he said.

Barton paused where he was brushing down his dark pants.  He’d been playing the role of bodyguard for most of the weekend, taking delight in glaring at everyone from behind mirrored shades.  Clint had lost the sunglasses now.  Instead, he wore the tailored black slacks, white shirt and black waistcoat he’d been wearing underneath a suit jacket.  In Clint’s natural style, he’d also rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, revealing his strong forearms, and his tie was loose.  Phil swallowed.  Somehow Clint looked even better half out of his suit than he’d looked in it.  The thin white cotton did nothing to hide the muscles of his shoulders or arms.

“Metzler is coming upstairs to try to catch you,” Barton said, breaking into Phil’s increasingly lurid thoughts.

“Shit.”  Jasper muttered something to one of the junior agents that Phil didn’t quite catch.  “He’s right, Phil.  Metzler and two goons are heading for the elevators.”

Phil narrowed his eyes a fraction, but otherwise didn’t give in to his surge of irritation.  No matter how much he wanted to curse.  “And you couldn’t tell me over the comms, Barton, because…?”

Barton shot him a pointed look in reply.  “Because even if Metzler doesn’t catch you searching his room, he’s still going to be suspicious,” he explained.  “So we just have to give him something to explain your shady behaviour.”  He glanced at the door.  “Can we hurry this up?  I wasn’t kidding about Metzler heading this way.”

“Well, you are between me and the door,” Phil muttered, mostly under his breath.

Barton huffed and rolled his eyes.  Blowing out a sigh, Phil gave into whatever insanity Barton was planning.  Whatever it was couldn’t actually be worse than their target catching them.  He followed Barton to the door, arching an eyebrow when Barton grabbed his hand as the slipped out into the corridor.  Phil didn’t want to say anything though, because Barton’s hand was warm and calloused and felt rather nice curled around Phil’s.

“Your room is on this floor, right?” Barton said quietly with a glance over his shoulder.

Phil nodded.  “Yeah.  It’s around the corner and three rooms down,” he replied.  When they’d planned the mission, it had made sense to put them as close to Metzler as possible.

“Oh, good,” Barton muttered.

“Metzler’s about to exit the elevator,” Jasper warned.

A second later, the elevators at the end of the corridor gave a discreet ding, and Barton was turning sharply, his face inches from Phil’s.  “Put your hands on my ass and don’t punch me when this is all over.”

“What the hell are you planning to do, Hawk?” Jasper asked, incredulous.

Phil usually had an answer for everything, so finding himself at a loss after Barton’s hissed words was very disconcerting.  “Do you want to run that one by me again, Barton?” he said quietly, wondering just what his life had come to.

“No time,” Barton growled and surged forwards.

Phil barely had time to bite back his instinctive response as Barton crowded him back against the wall.  One of Barton’s hands slid around the back of Phil’s neck to cushion his head, and then Barton’s lips were pressed firmly against Phil’s.

Phil’s brain ground to a halt.

Clint’s palm cupped Phil jaw, warm and broad and undeniably calloused.  Phil shivered at the sensation, the low-level attraction Phil had always felt for Barton bursting into life.  Clint shifted closer, pressing Phil against the wall, his free hand fumbling to pull Phil’s shirt out of his pants and slide underneath.  A tiny part of Phil’s mind was still aware that this was a cover for Metzler, but Phil was lost in sensation.

He wrapped his arms around Clint’s waist, one hand drifting up to feel the taut muscles of Clint’s back, even as the other drifted lower.  Clint made a soft noise in the back of his throat and presses closer still, opening his mouth under Phil’s and deepening the kiss.  On Phil’s jaw, Clint’s thumb was rasping distractingly against Phil’s stubble.  Clint felt warm and solid against him, both familiar and provocative and Phil wanted to say to hell with Metzler and keep kissing him forever.

A harshly cleared throat broke Phil out of what had been turning into a very nice kiss.  He blinked, suddenly aware of Metzler standing nearby.  For a moment, all he could do was stare wide-eyed at Clint, his breathing unsteady and his heart pounding in his chest.  Drawing himself together, Phil shot Metzler a glare.  He frowned at the hulking bodyguards smirking over Metzler’s shoulder.  The mission had to come first.

“Well, well, Mr Mitchell,” Metzler said, mocking amusement on his face as he swept his eyes over Phil’s body.  Phil reminded himself he couldn’t punch their target in the face.  Not yet, anyway.  “I was going to ask you why you kept leaving that lovely wife of yours alone, but I think I’ve found the answer.”  Metzler leered.  “Although, isn’t screwing the help a little cliched?”

Clint pulled his hand out from underneath Phil’s shirt and moved to step away, but Phil tightened his grip on Clint’s hip to stop him.  “I wasn’t aware it was any of your business, Mr Metzler,” Phil said, pleased when his voice came out dry and cool.  Inside, his stomach was still swooping.

“Ah, come now, Mr Mitchell,” Metzler said, as oily as ever.  “If we are to be… business partners, we should get to know one another.”

Phil decided he actually preferred Metzler’s usually cold gaze to the leering he was doing now.  He didn’t want to ask what Metzler had in mind, but he also had a mission to finish.  Nick was going to owe him _two_ bottles of scotch at this rate.

“Well, I’d be happy to oblige,” Phil said.  Peter Mitchell had been trying to break into the international league of black market for months.  Phil couldn’t blow the mission yet.  “Perhaps in the morning?”

Metzler cocked his head to the side, running his eyes up and down Clint’s body in a way that had anger and possessiveness flaring in Phil’s chest.  “Yes, of course,” he agreed.  “I suppose we must work our way up to more vigorous evening meetings.”

Phil was going to very much enjoy tasering Metzler later.  He’d even accept the pleasure in lieu of a birthday present.

“I shall see you in the morning, Mr Mitchell,” Metzler said with a final nod, before he and his bodyguards headed towards Metzler’s room.

Phil slowly let out a breath he hadn’t even been aware he’d been holding.

“Fuck, that guy’s a sleazeball,” Jasper muttered over the comms.

Clint slumped against Phil for a moment, the tension suddenly leaving him.  “You’re telling me,” he said quietly.  “Sorry, Boss.  This might not have been my best plan.”

“Actually,” Phil said, an idea coming to him.  His mind immediately started mapping out the different contingencies.  “This might give us the angle we’ve been looking for.”

Clint frowned at him, trying to work out Phil’s plan, even as Jasper cursed over the comms.  “And what are you going to do?  Set up a romantic rendezvous?” Jasper snapped.

Phil let out a breath.  “Not exactly,” he said.  “But we have been trying to get Metzler alone without his bodyguards.”  Jasper snorted, but Phil ignored him.  “Besides, how else am I going to tase that creep in the face?”

Snorting out a chuckle, Clint dropped his head to rest on Phil’s shoulder.  Guiltily, Phil realized he should probably let go of Clint, but he couldn’t quite get his fingers to move.  He’d always felt that gut deep spike of physical attraction, because Clint Barton was a handsome man.  Yet, over the years, Phil’s feelings for Clint had snuck up on him, rather like Clint himself.  Phil couldn’t pinpoint when he’d fallen in love with his friend and sometimes asset, but he had.  He’d fallen so hard that it was faintly ridiculous for a man his age.  He was supposed to have left ridiculous crushes behind twenty years ago.

At least Nick found the whole thing hilarious.

“Why do I get the feeling your new plan almost entirely revolves around tasering Metzler in the face?” Jasper asked, breaking into Phil’s thoughts.

“Hey,” Clint said, lifting his head and stepping back out of Phil’s arms.  Curiously, the tips of his ears were pink.  “It’s Coulson’s birthday.  He can tase Metzler in the face if he wants to.”

“I agree,” Natasha added.  “Metzler needs a good tasering.”

Jasper sighed heavily.  “You’re all nuts.  I’m working with crazy people.”

Clint grinned, ducking his head slightly as he reached for Phil’s hand.  Phil didn’t protest.  “Come on,” Clint said.  “We’ve got some planning to do.”

In the back of Phil’s mind, a little voice that sounded a lot like Nick was warning him this was going to get messy, but Phil told it to shut up.  It was his birthday, dammit.  He was going to enjoy it.  “After you,” he told Clint.

Clint grinned.

~*~

_New York, USA, 2005_

Gingerly, Phil eased his body under the hot spray of the shower, biting back a string of curses as the water hit his bruises.  Pain flared across his ribs as he jerked in reaction and Phil gave up on holding back his swearing.  Perhaps he’d been a little hasty in discharging himself from Medical after all.  Phil’s normally pale skin was covered with patches of black, purple and green, punctuated every so often with scratches and cuts.  At least the hot water was easing the dull throb from his abused muscles.

The injuries hurt, but they were worth it.  Given the choice, Phil would do exactly the same thing all over again.  If leaping into danger meant saving Clint Barton’s life, Phil would _always_ choose Clint.  The mission was supposed to have been simple, but then weren’t they always?  They'd been trying to track down a group called Cerberus, to stop newly developed designer drugs hitting the black market.  Only when Phil had brought in Strike Team Delta for help, Clint had been snatched right off his rooftop perch.

It had taken them hours to even get close to finding where Cerberus had hidden themselves.  In the end, Phil had snuck away from Jasper and the rest of the team and given himself up.  He’d been hoping that he’d be taken to wherever they were holding Clint, and then Natasha could use Phil’s tracker to bust in and get them.  And the plan had mostly worked.  Phil just hadn’t been counting on quite so many thugs wanting to punch him in the stomach and ask him stupid questions first.

Titling his head back, Phil winced as the water stung the cut on his forehead.  One of the ‘scientists’ working for Cerberus -- and Phil used the word ‘scientist’ _very_ loosely -- had dosed Phil with one of the drugs.  It was an attempt to keep him pliant, but even that hadn’t stopped him.  Of course, by the time Phil had got himself out of the electrical ties, Clint had kicked down the door and Natasha was wreaking havoc on the floor below.  The only bright point at all had been Clint’s broad, strong hands on him, and Clint’s rough, cracking voice murmuring assurances in his ear.

With another sigh, Phil climbed out of the shower.  He pulled on a pair of soft, worn sweat pants and his old Rangers t-shirt, and hobbled out towards the living room.  Sighing, he sort of fell onto his couch rather than sit on it, and sank back into the cushions.   _Fuck_ , it had been a long day.  And, in the grand tradition of Phil’s life around his birthday, not a particularly good one, either.  The only saving grace was that it had only just ticked over into Phil’s official birthday.  It was a tiny victory, maybe, but Phil was clinging to it.

Rubbing a hand over his face, Phil flicked on the TV.  Surely he could find something to keep his mind from circling around and around.  Phil had just settled on a repeat a _Man From U.N.C.L.E_ when a shrill ringing cut through the quiet.  Wincing, Phil leaned over to grab his phone from coffee table, and raised his eyebrows when he saw Natasha’s name on the caller ID.  “Is something wrong?” he answered, already calculating how long it would take him to change and be on the road.

“That,” Natasha said dryly, “entirely depends on your definition of ‘wrong’.”

Phil sank back down onto the couch.  The undercurrent of laughter in Natasha’s voice suggested the problem probably wasn’t mission related.  “Is Clint okay?” he asked, even though Natasha wouldn’t be amused if something had happened to Clint.  Which, to be honest, still left a lot of scope, but Phil remained optimistic.

“He’s being ridiculous,” Natasha said.  She let out a breath, her voice turning more serious.  “Physically, he’s mostly okay.  He was cleared from Medical with bruises and lacerations, but whatever drug they gave him has already cleared his system.”

Phil waited for more explanation, but Natasha was uncharacteristically hesitant.  “He won’t talk about what the drug made him see,” she said finally.  “But whatever it was, it’s enough to have him climbing your fire escape to make sure you’re safe.”

Phil huffed, shutting his eyes.  “Of course he is,” he muttered.

“Please don’t shoot him,” Natasha said, her tone amused again.

“I won’t,” Phil replied, rolling his eyes.

“Then I wish you luck,” Natasha said.  “I’m going home, but call me if you need help.”  She hesitated again.  “If you need someone to watch your back while you sleep, I can do that too.”

Phil swallowed, his chest warm and tight.  “Thank you, Natasha,” he said.  “I’ll remember that.”

“Goodnight, Phil,” Natasha said softly.  “And happy birthday.”

“Goodnight, Natasha,” Phil replied, resolving to call her in the morning and invite her out for brunch.  Or dinner, depending on when he woke up.

Hanging up the phone, Phil turned his attention to his kitchen window and waited for Clint to show up.  Since the kiss last year, whatever barriers had remained between him and Clint seemed to have disappeared.  Now, it was common knowledge that wherever Coulson was, Barton wasn’t far behind.  The first time he’d come home to find Clint on his couch watching _Dog Cops_ , Natasha standing over him, hands on her hips and glaring, he’d laughed.  Phil had seen Hawkeye the young archer, the hardened mercenary, and Barton the SHIELD agent.  That night, it had firmly been _Clint_ on his couch.  Clint’s cheeks had bulged with cereal like a deranged hamster, and he'd looked just like a boy who’d got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

It was a look very similar to the face Clint was giving him now when he caught Phil waiting.  There was a bruise on his cheek and a cut above his left eye, but other than that, he looked as unharmed as Natasha had promised.  Ducking his head sheepishly, Clint waved at Phil through the kitchen window.

Not even bothering to hide his smile, Phil levered himself up off the couch and moved to let Clint inside.  After their last mission, Phil couldn’t deny that something in him eased at the sight of the archer.  “Hello, Clint,” Phil greeted as Clint vaulted inside gracefully.

Phil bit back a sigh when he caught Clint’s quickly hidden wince when he landed.  “You know, doors are usually less painful for people with bruised ribs,” he said dryly.

“I don’t have bruised ribs,” Clint denied, before huffing.  “They’re just bruises.”  Clint’s tone was light, but there was a tightness around his eyes that told Phil there was more to the story than that.

“Uh huh,” Phil told him, folding his arms across his chest and raising an eyebrow.

Clint scowled.  “Shut up,” he muttered.  “Climbing in your window is traditional.”

“Traditional?” Phil echoed, wondering what Clint was talking about.

“Yeah,” Clint replied.  He hunched his shoulders a little, but his gaze never left Phil’s.  “I always climb in your window on your birthday.”

Phil blinked.  As he thought back to all his birthdays since he’d met Clint, he blinked again.  “You do,” he breathed, wondering how the hell he’d missed that for so long.

Clint grinned, and jammed his hands into his pockets.  “Sorry I don’t have a cupcake this year,” he said.

“I’m pretty sure you didn’t have a cupcake last year, either,” Phil pointed out.  Then he wanted to smack himself for bringing up the mission where _Clint had kissed him_.  He was under no illusions about the general attractiveness of a forty-two year old man.  Not with his receding hairline and a slowly spreading waistline.  Particularly to someone as handsome as Clint.

Because despite the toe-curling kiss, there had been no repeats.  Clint hadn’t offered any awkward attempts to ask Phil out on a date, or tried to seduce him, like he had many others.  Phil hadn’t been brave enough to give voice to his growing feelings.  So Phil had locked his attraction to Barton away again, and instead he’d gained a loyal and caring friend.  Even if Phil wished differently sometimes, he wouldn’t give up Clint’s friendship for anything.

“Hey!  I bought you a twinkie on the plane out,” Clint protested with a grin, seemingly oblivious to Phil’s inner turmoil.

Phil smiled, letting his insecurities fade to the back of his mind.  “You did,” he conceded.  He had Clint’s friendship and trust, and he was grateful for that.  It was enough.

Sighing, Phil debated whether he should make himself a cup of tea, or just give up and head back to the couch.  “I need coffee,” he said finally, heading towards the coffee machine.  “Did you want a cup?”

When Clint didn’t answer, Phil shot him a look.  He was staring at Phil with an expression Phil hadn’t seen before and couldn’t read.  Phil arched an eyebrow, but Clint still didn’t say anything.  “Okay,” Phil said, letting out a breath.  “Did you want to tell me why you’re really here, instead?”

Clint glanced away.  “Your birthday isn’t a good enough reason?” he said.

Phil gave in and rubbed a hand over his face.  “Of course it is, Clint,” he said.  “You’re my friend and you’re always welcome.”

“You’re exhausted, Phil,” Clint said softly.  “You should sleep.”

Slumping back against the kitchen bench, Phil shrugged.  “Not sure I can,” he said.

“Yeah,” Clint agreed, shrugging sheepishly as he ran a hand through his hair.  “Tell me about it.”

Phil smiled wryly.  “I was just going to watch some TV.  You’re welcome to join me if you like,” he offered.

Clint nodded, frowning when his eyes drifted over Phil’s shoulder to stare at the TV.  “What _is_ that?” he asked.

“The Man From U.N.C.L.E,” Phil told him.  At Clint’s blank look, Phil shook his head.  “You’re going to love it.  It’s ridiculous in all the best ways.”

Clint continued to look skeptical, but still followed as Phil hobbled towards the couch.  Glancing up, Phil caught the flash of guilt that crossed Clint’s face as he sat down with a grimace.  “No, none of that,” Phil said.  “You’re not allowed to feel guilty for choices I make.”

Clint rolled his eyes, but the tension around his eyes softened as he flopped down beside Phil on the couch.  “This is another of your stupid birthday rules, isn’t it?” he said dryly.

“They’re not stupid,” Phil shot back, even though that hadn’t been what he’d meant.  Clint was remarkably stubborn when it came to not blaming himself for everything.  Not that Phil really had room to judge.

“Okay, fine,” Clint said.  “Any other not-stupid birthday rules I should be aware of?”

Clint’s tone was teasing, but Phil wasn’t sure he could handle Clint’s teasing tonight.  It wasn’t just their recent mission.  Phil always found it difficult to hold up his Agent Coulson walls around Clint.  Not just because he’d gotten out of the practice, but also because he always struggled to hold back his insecurities when he was raw and hurting.  Clint sitting slumped and sleepy on his couch was too close to what Phil wanted buried deep in his heart and it was all getting a bit too much.

“Hey, Phil,” Clint said, his hand reaching over to grip Phil’s forearm gently.  The simple point of contact made Phil shiver and his skin break out in goosebumps.  “I’m sorry.  I’m not trying to be an asshole.”

Phil shook his head. “It’s okay,” he said.  “I’m just tired.”

“If you want to try to sleep, you can,” Clint said quietly.  “I’ll watch over you.”

Phil let his head fall back and sighed, staring up at the ceiling.  Unfortunately, the ceiling gave him no answers.  What Phil really wanted was to lean sideways and have Clint’s strong arms curl around him.  Even with Clint’s tactile nature that was probably pushing the boundaries of their friendship.  Of course, that didn’t stop Phil wanting it.  Fiercely.

“I got you a present,” Clint said, breaking the silence.

Blinking, Phil turned his head towards Clint, and the small purple-wrapped gift Clint was holding out.  “Happy birthday, Phil,” Clint said with a grin, wiggling the present a little.

“Thanks,” Phil said, taking it.  The purple paper was smooth under Phil’s suddenly sweating palm, although he had no idea why he was so nervous.  Maybe it was the intent look that was turning Clint’s eyes a stormy blue-green.  Maybe it was because this was too close to one of Phil’s fantasies.

Taking a shaking breath, Phil carefully pulled open the paper while Clint made impatient ‘hurry up’ gestures beside him.  Then Phil’s breath caught for an entirely different reason.  A rare photograph of Peggy Carter and the Howling Commandos started up at him.  Phil had seen similar ones in the SHIELD archive, but he’d never imagined he’d ever _own_ one.

“You like it?” Clint said.  “It’s only a copy, but I thought that would be okay.”

“Clint, I…”  Phil glanced up just in time to catch the expression of deep longing that flashed through Clint’s eyes.  The breath froze in Phil’s lungs and his heart immediately started pounding.

His eyes widening, Clint looked down at his hands, his fingers fidgeting with a loose thread of his jeans.  Phil desperately wanted to offer him comfort, but there was a voice in the back of his mind that was making Phil doubt what he’d seen.  Swallowing, Phil screwed up his courage and acted on instinct.  Leaning forward, he caught Clint’s chin with his hand and pressed a soft kiss to Clint’s mouth.  It really wasn’t much of a kiss, just firm pressure and enough time to feel how soft Clint lips were under his before Phil was pulling back again.

For a moment, Clint sat there almost frozen, his eyes still closed.  Phil swallowed down the doubts and insecurities clamouring in his head.  “Clint?” he whispered.

Clint gave his head a little shake, refusing to open his eyes.  Phil felt his stomach plummet, but Clint was speaking before Phil could offer any apologies.

“I’m not still in Medical, right?” Clint rasped, finally blinking open his eyes.  His gaze had deepened to a dark blue and Phil felt trapped in it.  “That really just happened?”

Phil nodded.  “Clint, I’m sorry if…”

“Hell, no,” Clint interrupted.  “No apologizing, unless you didn’t mean it?”

The corner of Phil’s mouth lifted, but not with humour.  Inwardly, he braced himself for the disappointment of Clint turning him down.  “I meant it,” he said.

Clint grinned, fast and sharp.  “Thank fuck,” he said, blowing out a breath.  “You are _really_ hard to read, Phil.  And I’ve been _looking_.”

Phil blinked.  “You… what…?”

Clint laughed.  “How is this a surprise to you?” he said incredulously.  “Natasha keeps telling me taking out a billboard would be more subtle.  You think I climb in everyone’s window?”

Phil pinched himself.  No, he wasn’t dreaming.  Glancing up at Clint again, Phil tried to make sense of what just happened.  Kissing Clint had been impulse.  Truthfully, all Phil had expected was a kind explanation of how Phil wasn’t his type (too old, too soft round the middle, too boring).  Not Clint grinning at him.  It didn’t make sense.

“Hey.”  Clint shifted closer, his head cocked to the side as he studied Phil.  “Are you freaking out on me?”

“No,” Phil said.  “Yes.  Maybe?”

Clint huffed out a soft chuckle.  “You know, I always figured if anyone was going to freak out if you ever kissed me, it would be, well, _me_.”  Reaching out, Clint took Phil’s hand and tangled their fingers together, his sharp gaze never leaving Phil’s face.

“Why?” Phil asked, because he was not understanding this at all.

Clint blinked.  “Because, Phil, you’re kind of perfect,” he said.  He ducked his head, his shoulders rising and falling with a deep breath, before he looked up again.  “And I love you.  I’m _in_ love with you.  So, you know, there’s that.”

Phil gaped for a moment, his jaw slack.  Then he gave himself a mental slap, because the _man of his dreams_ had just confessed to loving him back and Phil was just sitting there stupidly.  “You are the most ridiculous man I have _ever met_ ,” Phil told him, and hauled Clint in for another kiss.

This time, the kiss was hot and sweet.  Clint leaned into the embrace with a happy hum that Phil wanted to hear _forever_.  When Clint pressed closer, their noses bumped until Phil tilted his head, and then everything just _fit_.  Clint tasted like coffee and something sweeter.  He opened his mouth under Phil’s and Phil stopped thinking altogether as his nerve-endings came alive.  He groaned softly at the sensation.  Clint pressed unabashedly closer, nipping at Phil’s bottom lip.  Goosebumps erupted all over Phil’s skin, and he was lost in the feeling finally having Clint in his arms after waiting so long.  Somehow, his hands ended up in Clint’s hair, with Clint straddling his lap, a warm, solid weight against his chest.

Phil pulling in a shaking breath as Clint’s lips slid from his to trail down his neck, and Phil let his head fall back to give Clint better access.  “There’s… shouldn’t we talk about this?” he managed, gasping as Clint nipped playfully at his collarbone.

Clint leaned back a little, his eyes dark and his cheeks flushed.  He looked gorgeous and Phil’s heart skipped a beat at the sight.  “We could,” he agreed, his voice gravelly enough to send a shiver down Phil’s spine.  “Or we could just spend the next hour making out on your couch.”

Huffing out a laugh, Phil marvelled at the way he felt so completely and ridiculously happy.  Clint’s eyes softened at the sound.  “I just want to be with you, Phil,” he said.  “We can talk this whole thing to death later over breakfast, but right now it’s your birthday and we should be celebrating.”

Swallowing, Phil nodded.  “Yeah,” he said.  Clint was right -- they could, and would, talk about everything later.  The important things had been said already anyway.  “Okay.”

“See,” Clint said, crowding forward again.  “I always knew you were a smart guy.”

Phil’s answering laugh was swallowed by another kiss.  

~*~

_New York, USA, 2006_

Phil slowly came awake to the feeling of someone watching him.  From the grey light peeking in around the edge of his curtains, it was still early, and Phil considered rolling over and going back to sleep.  But the eyes on him were achingly familiar, and Phil couldn’t stop his smile.  “You’re back,” he said, his voice a little scratchy, and blinked open his eyes.

“I am,” Clint rasped.

Shifting, Phil turned towards the door.  Clint was slumped just inside, like the wall and his own inherent stubbornness were the only things keeping him upright.  His skin was pale and dark shadows had blossomed under his eyes.  Thankfully, other than that, he appeared uninjured.  He wore jeans and a t-shirt under a leather jacket, and his hair was still damp from his usual after-debrief shower.  “You look terrible,” Phil said, sitting up.

Clint smiled faintly.  “And you sure know how to make a guy feel wanted,” he replied, but it lacked his usual irreverence.

“Clint,” Phil said helplessly.  The last year might have taught him a little of what Clint saw in him, but he would never stop feeling lucky that Clint felt the way he did.

“I know,” Clint said softly, cutting him off.  He held up the key Phil had left in his SHIELD quarters, the little purple bow still attached.  “I got your message.”

Phil threw back the covers a little, intending to coax Clint under them.  “It was less of a message and more of an offer, really,” he said, his heart suddenly in his throat.  He’d been intending to invite Clint over for dinner and broach the subject of Clint moving in after that.  Naturally, that meant Clint had back from his mission early.  “But I was very much hoping you’d move in with me, Clint.”

Clint smiled, and even tired as it was, it lit up his eyes.  “Of course I will,” Clint replied.  “I practically have already.  How have you not noticed this?”  He waved away Phil’s answer before he could give it.  “Never mind.  You didn’t notice me pining for two years either.”

“I…”  Phil tried to figure out a way to defend himself, but really, that was true.  He hadn’t noticed, not until Clint had turned up on his couch and kissed him.

Smiling, Clint shook his head and shuffled forwards.  “Also,” he added.  “I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to _get_ presents on your birthday, Phil, not give them.”

Phil shrugged.  “My birthday, my rules.”

Clint chuckled, finally reaching the bed.  “Sorry,” he muttered, hiding a yawn behind his hand.  “I think I’m going to need a nap before I’m up for any birthday celebrations.”  He waggled his eyebrows in what, no doubt, was supposed to be a seductive manner.  “Pun intended.”

Phil swallowed, warmth bubbling up in his chest.  God, he loved Clint _so much_.  Even when he made ridiculous puns.  Climbing out of bed, Phil stood up and gently caught Clint’s face in his hands.  Tenderly, he stroked his thumb along Clint’s cheek.  The skin was smooth enough to mean that Clint had shaved before he’d come home.  Then Phil pulled him in for a long, slow kiss, just because Phil could.  And he was happy -- blissfully, wonderfully happy.  Clint hummed, his hand slipping under Phil’s t-shirt to rest against the small of Phil’s back.

When Phil finally broke the kiss, he only pulled far enough back to rest his forehead again Clint’s.  “Happy birthday, Phil,” Clint whispered, his breath warm against Phil’s skin.

“Thank you,” Phil replied, just as softly.

Clint smiled, but the expression was cut off when he yawned again.  Stepping back, Clint shrugged off his jacket.  Phil watched with amusement as Clint then got tangled trying to take off his jeans, because he’d somehow forgotten about his boots.  Catching Clint before he could fall, he moved to help with the laces, because Clint was more exhausted than he was trying to seem.  His coordination was always shot when he needed sleep.

“So exactly how much did you rush your extraction to get back early?” Phil asked, rising back to his feet as Clint kicked off his jeans and yanked off his t-shirt, leaving him in just a small pair of purple boxer-briefs.

Clint glanced over, his eyes wide and grey with exhaustion.  “Phil, it’s your birthday,” he said.

Exasperation warred with the warmth spreading through his chest.  “It’s just a day, Clint,” he said softly.  “I’d much prefer my boyfriend came home in one piece.”

“I am in one piece,” Clint protested indignantly as Phil shuffled him over to the bed.  “And it’s not just a day, it’s your _birthday_.  It’s supposed to be full of all the good things.  Like cake and beer and your ridiculous thing with Nick.”

Phil shook his head.  It wasn’t as though Phil had never celebrated his birthday before he met Clint.  Nick, Maria, Jasper and the half dozen other agents who knew Phil as more than Agent Coulson had always done their best.  There was just something about Clint’s enthusiasm that had swept Phil up in it.  Probably because that enthusiasm was far more insistent than Nick’s coaxing had ever been.  Either way, at age forty-three, Phil was starting to appreciate birthdays in a way he hadn’t since he was eight.  “My birthday _is_ full of good things,” he said.

Then he shoved Clint back onto the bed, grinning when Clint landed with flailing arms and a yelp.  Clint, exhausted and with his guards down, was more adorable that Phil could ever have imagined when he’d first met Hawkeye.  “You are such an asshole,” Clint grumbled at him.

“You knew that before you kissed me,” Phil pointed out.  He leaned down to give Clint another soft kiss, because it was perhaps a bit mean to shove his exhausted boyfriend at things, even when they were soft.

Clint snaked out a hand to tug Phil down for a longer kiss that definitely would have started something if Clint hadn’t been so exhausted.  Phil poked him in the ribs.  “Sex later.  Sleeping first,” he said when Clint let him pull away.

“Fine,” Clint muttered, but Phil could see he was fading fast now that he was lying down.

Walking around to the other side of the bed, Phil climbed back under the blankets.  He smiled as Clint immediately rolled over and curled up against Phil’s side, dragging one of Phil’s arms over to rest against his chest.  Phil snuggled closer, pressing a kiss to the nape of Clint’s neck.  “I was thinking,” he said quietly.  “Should I admit that I’m a little disappointed that you didn’t climb in my window this year?”

Clint rolled over so he could blinked at Phil.  “I thought you hated it when I did things that were unnecessarily reckless?” he said.

Phil propped himself up on an elbow so he could look down at Clint.  Even in the dim light he looked rumpled and beautiful, and Phil couldn’t stop his smile.  Reaching out, he gently trailed a finger along Clint’s jaw.  “I do,” he said.  “But it’s tradition.”

Chuckling, Clint snuck a hand up to rest over Phil’s heart.  “You do like your traditions,” he said.  Then he scowled.  “Does this mean you’ve figured out where Nick’s holding your super secret surprise party?”

Phil rolled his eyes.  “I’ve known about that for weeks, Clint,” he said.

Clint scowled up at the ceiling.  “But _how_?” he grumbled.  “We were really sneaky!”

“You’re not as sneaky as you both think you are,” Phil said.  “Half your requests go through admin.  Melinda is an old friend, and she loves foiling Nick’s plans.  When the fate of the world doesn’t hang in the balance, of course.”

“Of course,” Clint echoed.  “No, actually, wait a minute, what?”

“It’s a long story, but it starts with the fact Nick has been in love with Melinda for years,” Phil said.  “I’m pretty sure Melinda feels the same, but that isn’t actually the point I was intending to make.”

Clint grumbled something into the pillow.  “So what point _were_ you trying to make?” he asked.  “Because I’m pretty sure I’m so tired I’ve lost all points in this conversation.  Actually, I’m pretty sure I’m asleep.”

Phil carded his fingers through Clint’s soft hair.  “I was trying to say that the good thing I meant was _you_ ,” he said.

Clint blinked open his eyes and the smile that split his face was warmer than the sunrise.  Then he bit his lip.  “I’m sorry the birthday celebrating isn’t going exactly how I had planned.”

Shaking his head, Phil leaned down for a final kiss.  “I don’t know, it’s turning out pretty perfect to me,” he said.  “Sleep, Clint.  We can get to the rest of it when you wake up.”

Even as Clint’s eyes slid shut, he smiled again.  “I love you too, Phil,” he said softly.

Phil snuggled down into the blankets, tugging Clint close.  “Not as much as I love you,” he whispered.

 

End

 


End file.
